by Stuart Woods
He walked up the driveway in time to see the living room lights go on in the house. The Cadillac was parked just outside the garage. Stampano was apparently looking forward to a night in the company of the young woman.
Rick gave him ten minutes, then found a twig and opened the driver’s door of the Cadillac. He pressed the horn button, jammed it with the twig, then stepped into the shadows. The horn pierced the desert night, and through the trees Rick could see the lights of another house come on. The neighbors were annoyed.
A moment later, Stampano appeared at the front door in a dressing gown, a gun in his hand. He looked around the property and, seeing no one, ran quickly down the front steps to the open door of the car. Holding the gun in front of him, he inspected both the front and rear seats before checking the horn. The noise stopped, and the man could be heard swearing to himself. He turned to start back to the house, and Rick stepped out of the shadows.
“You were warned,” Rick said.
Stampano’s gun hung at his side in his hand, but Rick’s .45 was pointed at his head. “You haven’t got the balls,” Stampano said.
Rick fired a single shot at Stampano’s face. He staggered against the Cadillac, then fell, the gun clattering across the pavement. Rick took a quick look at him. The top of his head was gone. Satisfied, he ran lightly down the driveway and looked both ways up and down the street. Lights were going on; he had only a moment. He ran to Glenna’s car, leaped inside and released the hand brake. The car began to roll silently down the hill. Not until he was around the next corner did he start the engine, and he drove another block before turning on the headlights.
Rick drove aimlessly around for ten minutes to be sure none of Stampano’s colleagues were following him, then headed home. He parked Glenna’s car in the driveway next to his own and went into the house. He quickly dismantled and cleaned the .45 and reloaded it, to have it ready for any inspection. He was washing his hands in the bathroom when the doorbell rang.
Rick retrieved the gun and, holding it behind him, walked cautiously to the door, checking windows. He peeked through the sidelight at the front door and saw Ben Morrison standing there.
Rick opened the door. “Good evening, Ben,” he said.
Ben stepped inside without being invited. “So it’s done,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“What’s done?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Rick. The hood is still warm on Glenna’s car, and I smell gun oil.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Rick replied.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” Ben said. “I came here and got you out of bed. Both cars were cold. Your gun was clean. I went away. When I came back to talk to you the following morning, you were gone. Asking around, I discovered that you had left for Canada to join the RAF in Montreal. No way to track you down. Got that?”
“You really think this is necessary, Ben?”
“You’re suspect number one, Rick, and you have shit for an alibi, so don’t even start with me. You’ve got motive and opportunity, and a comparison of the bullet we dig out of Stampano is probably going to match your gun. Jesus, you know the drill.”
“I guess I do.”
“And we’re not going to be the only people looking for you,” Ben said. “When Bugsy Siegel hears about this, goons all over Beverly Hills will be hunting you.”
“Could be.”
“The Canada story sound all right to you?”
“I guess so. How much time do I have?”
“I’ll give you until nine A.M. I’ll get Stampano’s body taken to the morgue as a John Doe, and I’ll see that the story doesn’t get to the press before then. Is that enough time for you to get clear of the city?”
“I’d rather have a day.”
Ben shook his head. “You’d be in jail or dead by noon.”
Rick nodded. “I’d appreciate every minute you can give me.”
“By ten o’clock it’ll be out of my hands.”
“I understand. Thanks for your help, Ben.”
“Take care of yourself, Rick. Don’t come home for a long time, and check with me before you do.”
“I will.” The two men shook hands, and Ben left.
Rick went into the house and called Eddie Harris at home.
“Hello?” Eddie sounded sleepy and annoyed.
“It’s Rick.”
“God, man, I’ve been trying to call you. I heard about Glenna from Judson. Where are you?”
“At home, but not for long. I have to leave town.”
There was a moment’s silence. “I gather our boy is not going to be a problem anymore?”
“Not the kind of problem he was before. Eddie, I’m going to have to depend on you for a few things.”
“Anything I can do. Name it.”
“The story is going to circulate that I went to Canada to enlist in the RAF, motivated by Clete’s death. You can foster that idea without leaning on it too heavily.”
“Sure.”
“Glenna is going to need your help, and you’ll have to explain to her why I had to leave at this moment.”
“Of course I will. I’ll be there when she wakes up.”
“You’re going to have to assign somebody to complete postproduction on the film, and I don’t know what the hell you’re going to tell people about the wedding—the invitations have already been mailed.”
“I’ll work up a story. You went to Canada, and Glenna went to see you off, something like that. She thought it was more important that you fight than get married, and now she’s taking a long rest. I’ll get her out of town, send her down to my place in Palm Springs to recuperate.”
“I’ll leave that to you.”
“Are you going to be able to get into the Navy right away?”
“I hope so. There’s a class starting the first of every month. That’s next week, and I’ve already had my physical.”
“Let me know if you have a problem getting accepted, and I’ll make some calls.”
“Will do.”
“You need any money?”
“No, I’ve got a couple of thousand in the safe here.”
“You’re still on the payroll, pal.”
“That’s more than generous, Eddie. You’re a good friend.”
“Call me when you can, and send me an address when you get one.”
“I will. Tell Glenna I’ll call her tomorrow at the clinic and that I love her more than ever.”
“Will do.”
“Goodbye, Eddie.”
“Goodbye, my friend.”
Rick hung up and went to put a few things in a bag.
AT EIGHT A.M. Rick was parked at Hollywood and Vine, outside the Navy recruiting office. He saw Lieutenant Commander Chelton park his car and open the front door, and he followed the naval officer inside.
“Well, Mr. Barron,” Chelton said, offering his hand. “You thinking of joining the Navy?”
Rick shook his hand. “Is right now too soon?”
Chelton smiled. “Come into my office. Let me see what I can do.”
61
FIFTEEN MONTHS PASSED. Rick had been sent to San Diego by bus for induction, then he traveled by train to Pensacola, Florida, where he was introduced to Navy flying. The training was in Boeing Stearmans, which Rick had flown before, and his only difficulties were in hiding his previous experience from his instructors so that he would not have to join their number, and in flying the Navy way, instead of his own.
Rick got a letter every week from Eddie Harris, and the first one was disturbing. Eddie had been with Glenna at the Judson Clinic when she awakened after her ordeal, but three days later someone came for her in a car, and she walked out of the clinic and disappeared. Rick worried about her, pined for her, but not even Eddie Harris had been able to find her.
Subsequent letters kept Rick posted on studio production and passed on gossip. The killing of Stampano had made front-page news in LA, but as time passed without a
resolution of the case, the story had faded from the news. Word from Ben Morrison, though, was that Ben Siegel was livid and that his boys were still looking for Rick. The story of his trip to Canada to join the RAF and the cancellation of the wedding had made the papers and had apparently been accepted, as had the news of Glenna’s taking time off from work. There had been some speculation in the columns that she might have gone to England to be with Rick.
Rick, who had immediately been pinned with the nickname “Dad” by the younger pilots, had received his wings and commission and had been sent back to San Diego for four months of gunnery and bombing training. He had been so proficient that he had been unable to avoid becoming an instructor, but after months at this, and with Eddie Harris’s help, he had finally gotten a carrier assignment. Still, neither he nor Eddie had heard from Glenna.
So it was that, on a Sunday morning in early December ’41, Rick had stood on a quay in San Diego and watched his new ship, the Saratoga, sail into the harbor. Then a car had driven onto the quay, and people had begun to gather around it to listen to the radio. Their excitement and shock attracted Rick, and he walked over to hear the first reports of the attack on Pearl Harbor. He sailed for Hawaii on the Saratoga the following day.
THEY HAD ARRIVED AT PEARL on the fifteenth of December, when there was still smoke rising from the ruined ships scattered about the harbor, and everyone who stood on the flight deck, staring, had been appalled by the carnage—huge ships capsized, beached, or on the bottom of the harbor, only their superstructures showing above water.
There had been no liberty, just a quick refueling, and word was they were on their way to relieve embattled Wake Island. They were delayed by their slow oiler, and when word was received that Wake had been overrun, they turned back. Rick’s squadron had been thirsty for action, and there was much disappointment.
Their luck failed again when the Saratoga was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine and had to return to the States for repairs, thus missing the Battle of Midway.
DURING THEIR STAY in San Diego, Eddie Harris came down from LA for dinner with Rick at the Hotel del Coronado, where he was quartered. They sat down to dinner in the dining room.
“The Army Air Corps requisitioned our DC-3,” Eddie said sadly, “so I had to drive down. They say we’ll get it back, but I don’t believe them. I think some general is flying around in it.”
“Have you heard anything at all from Glenna?” Rick asked.
“Only secondhand,” Eddie said. “Barbara Kane told me that she was in New York having surgery on her face, but that now she’s in Wisconsin.”
“Back home. She still has relatives there.”
“She’s worried about Siegel, I think. She called Ben Morrison last week, and he told her to stay where she was.”
“I don’t blame her.”
“The good news is, Luciano is going to be deported to Italy when the war’s over.”
“I thought he was doing thirty years.”
“He was, but apparently after the burning of the Normandie in the New York docks, he was helpful to the government in getting the dockers unions to help with harbor security, so they’re going to ship him back to the land of his birth at the first opportunity. I think this is a good development for us, having him out of the country. It seems clear that Stampano’s protection came from Luciano, not Siegel.”
“I hope you’re right. I always had the feeling that Siegel didn’t like Stampano all that much, anyway. What set Siegel off was my getting into his safe, then killing one of his people.”
Eddie dug into a pocket and retrieved a fat envelope and handed it to Rick. “This came for you at the studio,” he said. “It’s postmarked London, July of ’forty.”
“Well, that took a long time, didn’t it?” Rick looked at the envelope. “It seems to have gotten wet somewhere along the way.” He ripped it open and read the first page. “Good God!” he said.
“What is it?”
“It’s from a firm of solicitors in London, and there’s a copy of Clete Barrow’s will. Apparently he bequeathed me all his assets in LA.”
“You mean his house?”
“His house, car, clothes and whatever he had in the bank. There’s an LA law firm handling that part of his estate.”
“You want me to look into it for you?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll give you a letter authorizing you to represent me.”
“The house is closed up. I heard that the Filipino couple who worked for Clete have opened a little restaurant in West Hollywood.”
“Good for them.”
“Clete’s car is still in our transportation department. Hiram told me he got the parts he needed in what must have been the last shipment from Germany before war was declared. He’s determined to rebuild it.”
“How’s business?”
“We’re doing great with war-related movies and comedies. Caper did well, and Glenna got a nomination but didn’t win.”
“I read about it in the papers.”
“We’re making some training films, which have to be shot quickly and cheaply, and we’re picking up some techniques that will come in handy when we get into television.”
“You’re getting into television?”
“Well, not until after the war, but I think there’ll be an explosion of sets as soon as they can start making them again, so there’ll be money to be made. You heard about Carole Lombard, of course.”
“Yes, I wrote Clark a letter but didn’t hear back from him. He must have been inundated with mail after she died.”
“He took it very hard. He volunteered for the draft, you know; got a commission and trained as a gunner in bombers.”
“I read something about it.”
“They’ll never let him fly missions, you know. If he got killed, it wouldn’t be good for morale, but he’s in England.” Eddie cleared his throat. “Listen, Rick, I apologize for bringing this up, but I just want you to think about it.”
“What?”
“I can get you transferred back to LA. You can make training films for us.”
“No chance, Eddie. I haven’t even seen combat yet.”
“I figured I’d try. I can understand why you want combat.”
“We’re sailing—well, I can’t tell you when, but soon—and I think we’ll be in it before long.”
“I’m glad for you, and sorry at the same time. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I don’t want to lose me, either,” Rick replied. He looked at his watch. “Well, I have some packing to do.” They got up and he walked Eddie to the parking lot.
“There’s going to be plenty for you to do when this is over, kid,” Eddie said. “I’m going to need you. You remember that.”
“I will,” Rick replied. “Eddie, will you see if you can find Glenna in Milwaukee? I’m sure that’s where she is.”
“Right away.”
“Tell her I love her, and give her my APO number, so she can write.” Rick handed Eddie a card with the address.
They shook hands and hugged, and Rick walked back to his room. The Saratoga would sail the following morning.
62
EARLY AUGUST 1942. Rick launched from the Saratoga and circled while his squadron fell in with him. He was a lieutenant now, and a squadron commander, the fruits of his age and rapid wartime promotion.
The aircraft formed up and followed Rick toward the beaches of Guadalcanal. He could see the wakes of hundreds of landing craft circling, waiting for the artillery barrage on the beaches to cease so they could land their Marines.
The barrage ended as Rick’s squadron approached, and he led his airplanes down to the beach. They made two runs, dropping bombs just inland from the beach and strafing any Japanese positions they could see, then returned to the Saratoga for fuel and rearming. Four more times that day they made the run, bombing and strafing targets farther inland, as the Marines progressed. Rick rarely knew if they hit anything, since the Japanese positions were carefully concealed. Th
ey made another dozen runs the following day, and at the end of the second day, Rick counted thirty-one bullet holes in his airplane, small-arms fire, fortunately. On the third day, they withdrew toward a rendezvous with an oiler for refueling the Saratoga, and they took on ammunition and supplies from other ships.
They took on mail, too, and Rick waited in vain for the mail clerk to bring him something. He had still not heard from Glenna, and Eddie Harris had not been able to find her. His only theory was that her face was ruined, and she didn’t want him to see her ever again. His heart ached whenever he thought about it. He was determined that the first stateside leave he got, he would go to Milwaukee and find her himself.
RICK WAS TAKING A NAP the following evening in the small cabin he shared with another officer when an announcement came over the squawk box:
“THIS IS THE CAPTAIN SPEAKING. ALL OFF-DUTY PERSONNEL WILL REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE HANGAR DECK FOR SPECIAL TRAINING.” The announcement was repeated.
“What the hell?” his cabinmate said from the upper bunk. “What kind of training?”
“Beats me,” Rick said wearily, getting to his feet and stretching.
“You think he meant officers, too?”
“He said ‘all off-duty personnel,’ ” Rick reminded him. “The old man is always specific. Come on, get your ass in gear.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Rick found himself sitting on the deck among a group of flyers, waiting for he knew not what. Then the lights dimmed and total blackness ensued. A moment later, he heard a whir of machinery, and then a hauntingly familiar sound, one he had not heard for nearly three years: the Artie Shaw Orchestra playing “Nightmare.” Then the lights came on, illuminating the giant elevator used to lift aircraft between the hangar and the deck. It was descending, and the band was riding it.
A gigantic cheer went up from the three thousand men assembled there, drowning out the music for the moment. Then the elevator reached the hangar deck, and the band broke into “Traffic Jam,” and the men went wild.
